Come Undone
by kyella14
Summary: Draco hasn't stepped foot in England since the war ended, and he's happy to keep things that way. That all changes when he receives an invitation to Hermione's wedding. Will he return and face his past, or will he keep running? Dramione. OneShot. Rated for language. Written for QLFC Practice Round 2.
**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

 **[A/N]: Practice Round 2 of QLFC! I had to do a Dramione fic, with the following optional prompts:**

 **(word) leaving**

 **(word) postcards**

 **(quote) 'Sometimes your life boils down to one insane move.' – Avatar.**

 **Team: Ballycastle Bats**

 **Position: Beater 2**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

He goes on a trip, after the war. He travels from country to country, anywhere, as long as it is away from all the hatred and disgust.

He tries to find a place where he can roll up his sleeves and no one would flinch at the sight of the twisted, black _thing_ that, though faded, still writhes on his skin. It's almost impossible. For all the Dark Lord's attentions were focused on Britain, his name and the ideals he held to still reached far and wide. Along with that, the atrocities committed by his faithful followers.

He never stays in a place for too long. At most, a year. At the end of each stay in the country, he buys a postcard. He remembers the one she sent him for Christmas, when she went skiing in France. He scorned the postcard, thought it a strange custom of Muggles and couldn't understand why the pictures didn't move.

Yet now, he picks up the fountain pen she bought him for his birthday and presses it to paper. He signs off on every one of them with an elegant 'D'.

He puts little tid-bits of his life in them. Hints of unending nightmares, unwritten apologies that lace the tone of each, carefully selected word. At the top, her name is always written in an uncertain hand, the lines of the letters a touch lighter than the remaining content of the postcards. He wonders if she would notice, if he sent these. He thinks she probably would – she notices everything.

He keeps up with her, scouring _The Daily Prophet_ for any mentions of her name. In the months after the war, her name was on almost every page. The public wanted to know what any member of the Golden Trio was doing, and _The Daily Prophet_ gave it.

There were pictures of her eating lunch at her favourite café, pictures of her walking down the streets with a friend. He keeps some of them, the ones where she is laughing and smiling.

Her wedding announcement comes out five years after he left. He wonders if she is marrying the man to spite him. He doubts it. Too Gryffindor for that.

The invitation reaches him when he is in Singapore, sweating like a pig. It tells him that her wedding is in December, in two months.

He wants to throw it into the fire.

Instead, he weighs the expensive paper in his hands, eyes fixed on her name. Memories flash through his head – the way she laughs; the way her expressions change when she is reading. Her lemony scent, mixed in with the smell of old books, is so fresh in his mind he can breathe in and _almost_ think she is there.

In the end, he picks up his quill and inks in his reply.

Then, he packs up his bags and books an International Portkey.

* * *

She fidgets in front of him, and he can't help but marvel just how she _hasn't_ change. He sees her shift in her seat, the way she does when all she wants to do is run out the door.

Her name wraps around his tongue, begging to be said. He hasn't said it since he left. Saying her name is like breathing life back into her memory, and it only fans feelings that he has tried his best to smother.

Now, he chokes on it. Even as she sits in front of him, and he can just reach out a hand and _touch_ her, he can't say her name.

"Malfoy," she finally says, when the silence gets too much to bear. He dips his head in reply, pretending he doesn't see the way her eyes take in his too-tight grip on the handle of his coffee mug.

"You said you wanted to meet," he says, somehow managing to keep his voice level.

"I did," she agrees. "I heard you were back in England."

His laugh is humourless. "From _The Daily Prophet_?" Rita Skeeter managed to catch wind of his return, and the day after his Portkey arrived, his face is splattered across the front pages. ' _Shamed Malfoy Heir Returns_ ' _,_ Skeeter titled her piece.

"Your mother, actually," she corrects him. His eyes widen in surprise.

"You kept in touch with my mother?"

"She keeps me up-to-date with your latest whereabouts." He notes the present tense 'keeps', and there's a kind of spasm in his chest. He also hears the slight accusation in her voice. He thinks of the postcards that are at the bottom of his trunk, never sent, only gathering dust.

"I see," is all he says, in the end. "How are Potter and Weasley?"

Surprise and disappointment flash across her face, before it smooths over, and settles into a polite mask. "They're fine. Ron is doing great at his Auror work. Harry and Ginny broke up a while back, and he's started dating Luna. He's happier."

Her bemused tone makes his lips twitch upwards. He knows she has never been able to understand Luna, even though she loves the blonde witch. "That's good," he pauses before he poses the next question. "How are you and Weasley?"

"Er," she looks flustered, and he can't help but think the pink tinge dusting her cheeks is very attractive. "Fine. It's… he loves me. And I love him."

He wonders if it's just his imagination, the way she tags on the last sentence, as though it's more an afterthought and an obligation than out of any real passion. She glances warily at him. He manages a half-smile that doesn't look as though he has just seen the Dark Lord come back to life again. "Good."

She deflates a little at that, whether it is with relief or disappointment, he isn't sure. He thinks she isn't sure, either.

* * *

He sees her again at a bar, while he is catching up with Pansy, Blaise and Daphne. She is there having her bachelorette's party. He almost stands to leave.

But Pansy puts her hand on his arm, and he sighs.

They talk about work, dating, school. In some of the darker moments, they talk about the Dark Lord and the things they did that still haunt them. Some of the lighter moments, they spend laughing about silly pranks from their carefree Hogwarts years.

He cracks smiles at the stories, even as half his attention is on the brunette who is chatting animatedly with her friends two tables away.

She hasn't glanced his way all evening, instead knocks back shots of Firewhiskey like they are water.

In hindsight, it shouldn't have been a surprise that she stumbles up to him drunk when he goes out for a breath of fresh air, but it is. Ironic, because the whole reason he _needed_ air is because he couldn't stand being in that pub for two more seconds while all he can hear is her giggling.

He eyes her, as she slumps against the wall next to him. "You're drunk," he says.

"No shit," she slurs out. He raises an eyebrow.

"Well, look who learned how to swear."

"Shut _up_ , Malfoy," she snaps, but the effect is diminished when she drags out the last syllable of his name, so that it sounds as though she is speaking through a hollow pipe. "It's allllll your fault. You just _had_ to accept the stupid invitation, and you just _had_ to return to England."

He fights back the ridiculous hurt that swells up in him, because he knows that he, of all people, does not deserve to feel like that. _He_ left _her_. "If you didn't want me to come, you shouldn't have sent the invite," he says.

"I didn't think you'd accept!" she whines.

"Ah, your mistake, then."

She pouts at that, and he tries not to stare at the plumpness of her bottom lip, but fails miserably as he thinks about how much he'd like to just lean in and _bite_ it.

"I never told Ron, you know," she says suddenly. It takes him a while to realise she has even spoken.

"About what?" he asks, even though he already knows.

"Us. That we dated. That the guy I was so _pathetically_ hung up on for three years after the war was you." She must be further gone than he thought, because he knows this is far more than she would ever say sober. "Harry suspected, I think. But Harry's always been more perceptive than Ronald, and Ronald is too prejudiced to even _think_ about dating a Slytherin."

He snorts at that. "Hasn't graduated Hogwarts yet, has he?"

"Still in first year," she agrees, a small smirk on her lips. She blushes after that, realising what she is saying about her fiancé to her ex, of all people.

"Are you happy with him? Really?" he asks, breaking the awkward silence. He turns and scrutinises her, as though he can tell with every line in her face the stories of her life.

She smiles. "I love him."

He doesn't point out that that isn't an answer. Instead, he nods and smiles back at her. She clears her throat and pushes herself off the wall, wobbling slightly. He reaches a hand out, but she already has her hand on his shoulder to steady herself.

"I'm fine," she assures him, and all he can think of is the heat of her palm that is burning through his clothes and into his skin.

He swallows, realising this is the closest he has been to her in _five years._ He notes, gladly, that her scent is exactly as he remembers it.

She reaches out, touches the back of her hand to his cheek. The electricity of the moment fades, as his eyes cut to the side and fix on the scar on the inside of her arm. He pulls away, gives her an empty smile. "It was nice seeing you. I'm glad you're happy."

He turns on his heel, ignores the bitter taste in his mouth and the way she stands, stock-still behind him, her body still leaning forward as though to press herself against an invisible person.

* * *

When he gets home, he digs up the postcards he wrote. He reads through all of them again, and he doesn't move until the sun is up.

* * *

"You're being ridiculous," Pansy tells him two days later. She isn't the first to say that. He has heard it from Blaise, Millicent, Daphne, his mother, even – Merlin forbid – his _house-elf._

"I don't know what you mean," he says, crossing his arms petulantly.

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, you do. Bloody hell, Draco, you're obviously _still_ in love with her! Your pining is grating on everyone's nerves, and if you could kindly put us out of our misery by actually _telling_ her how you feel, it'd be really great, thanks."

"Go home, Pans," he says. It's three in the morning and he is beyond exhausted.

"No," she says. "I won't. Not until you either go over there and tell her you love her, or you tell me what the real reason you're doing this self-pitying, masochistic bullshit is."

He sighs and walks up the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Pansy demands.

"To bed," he snaps. "I might as well, because you're going to be here for a long time."

"For fuck's sake," says his friend. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. It's obvious she feels the same way for you, so _why –_ "

"I don't want to talk about it," he says. His tone is the coldest he has ever used on her in years, and she flinches.

" _Draco_." Her voice is soft, but the raw concern there is like a punch in the gut and is much more effective than anything she has tried this night. "You're my friend. Even if you did go gallivanting across the globe and _barely_ kept in touch, you're still my friend. And I want you to be happy."

"I'll be happy if she marries Weasley," he says.

" _Why_?" asks Pansy. "Because she sure as hell won't be happy. She's _miserable,_ even I can see that."

"She'll be happy," he says stubbornly. "Happier with him, instead of with some washed up Death Eater who still…"

"What?" she prompts him, tone gentle as he has ever heard it.

"Nothing," he snarls. He shakes his head and stomps up to bed.

* * *

The nightmares seem more vivid lately. Even when he wakes up, he thinks he can hear her screaming, and when he goes down to the drawing room, he can see her writhing on the floor with his mad aunt cackling over her.

He sees himself, too, helpless and scared and pathetic.

* * *

Four days before her wedding, he is furious. At Pansy, who has somehow managed to get her hands on the postcards in his room.

He spends hours screaming at an unrepentant Pansy, about invasions of privacy and whatnot. He waves _The Daily Prophet_ in her face, but all she does is jut out her chin and says, "Sometimes, your life boils down to one insane move. You'll be thanking me for making that move for you, in a few days' time."

He sends Pansy home, unable to even look at her, and stares at the headlines.

' _Golden Girl Calls Off Wedding!_ '

* * *

Daphne comes over, hours after Pansy leaves. Somehow, he finds himself spilling out everything he has ever felt and thought since the war in front of her.

"I still dream about her. Here. At the Manor. What that _monster_ did to her." Daphne is silent the whole time, only listening. "After the trial, she told me that she didn't blame me. That me lying about not knowing her was enough help. But it wasn't. Not to me.

"I should have done more," he says, his voice raw. "I _could_ have done more. I wasn't there for her, not when she needed me most. When she was suffering and in _so much_ pain, all I did was watch.

"But Weasley – he charges in with a stolen wand, desperate to save her. _He_ was the one who was there for her. _He_ was the one who stood by her and was strong for her. He was the one who loved her enough to charge into battle with four Death Eaters and Fenrir Greyback. I was the one who stood there, and let her get tortured and almost killed." He smiles bitterly. "How can I be with her, when all I do is fail her? Even now, I deluded myself into thinking that she could be happy with Weasley, because it was _easier._ "

Daphne's eyes are hard when she looks at him. "Four Death Eaters. Two were your parents. The other your aunt. You had to weigh family on one hand, and Granger on the other. Weasley didn't have that burden."

"So?" he asks. "I _loved_ her. But still, I stood there – because I was _afraid._ " He spits out the word, lip curling in disgust. "I don't deserve to be with her."

"Let her decide that," is all Daphne says. They are silent for a long while, her presence a comfort as he sits and thinks with his head in his hands.

* * *

Two days later, Hermione knocks on his door.

He opens it, dread and fear and nervousness coiling in his stomach.

"Draco," she says. Her dark eyes are hesitant and in her hands, she holds a stack of postcards written in the black ink of a fountain pen.

He swallows, feels her name sitting behind his teeth. He doesn't choke this time.

"Hermione."

She glares at him, and before he can even think, her fist is pulled back and she swings it forward.

There's a loud _crack_ , and the world goes black for a few moments before he realises that he is sitting on the floor, blinking up at her. "What the fuck?" he sputters, clutching at his face.

"Fuck you," she says.

"Fucking hell, Granger, you didn't need to _punch_ me!"

"You fucking _arse_ ," sneers Hermione, then she crouches down on the floor next to him and pulls him into a hug. "You deserved it," she whispers into his ear. She presses her face into his robes and he can feel a dampness soaking into them.

"This is third year all over again," he mutters as his nose throbs. It pulls a laugh from her and he feels his heartbeat quicken.

Minutes tick by in silence, before she calms down enough to pull away. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, and he feels his heart clench. "Tell me everything," she says. "Please. I need to know. Not through postcards Pansy stole from you, but I need to hear everything from _you._ "

Draco watches her, the look of defiance and steely resolve in her eye, mixed in with a raw emotion that leaves him breathless. A part of him wants to shake her and tell her to come to her senses, to go back to Weasley. The other part tells him that _he_ is the one being foolish here. That Hermione, at least, deserved to know.

He thinks of the certainty in Daphne's eyes, thinks of Pansy's frustration. He thinks of his mother's sad sighs, Blaise's amusement mixed with irritation whenever Draco brings up Hermione.

"Okay," he says. Her fists clench in his robes and her lip wobbles. For a moment, he considers backing out, but then she smiles and he knows what he is doing, for once, is the right thing.

Something he should have done a long time ago.


End file.
